


Silent Nights.

by Deducingsocks



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Horror, M/M, the undead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-28
Updated: 2011-06-08
Packaged: 2017-10-18 18:34:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/191967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deducingsocks/pseuds/Deducingsocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 2013. Eight months ago a mysterious plague infected the United Kingdom, and possibly the rest of the world. North London is equip with a camp for survivors. John Watson has been thrust back in the line of duty as he defends his new home while his partner, Sherlock Holmes, is responsible for the safety of civilians and scientific research below the surface. Neither are very happy with their current arrangements but in times of trouble one learns to adapt; or die.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I: The way the world is.

**Author's Note:**

> .John and Sherlock are in an established relationship.  
> .It will get gory at parts; people will die.  
> .People will also have sex, as people do.

When the siren's sounded in the North London sector, everyone knew their places. Those who could fight went to the front lines and those who could protect went with the weaker of the pack.

John Watson was forced back into his camouflage and handed a EM-2 Bullpup. He was told to aim between the eyes, shoot and don't think twice. Unwillingly, John was thrown straight into a battlefield unlike any he had ever seen.

Sherlock Holmes went with the rest of the civilians as a guard, a gun strapped to his left thigh and a knife to his right. In his former life Sherlock was a sociopathic consulting detective. If someone had told him he would be acting as civilian guard in the war, he would have laughed in their faces ; everyone changed once the virus broke out, even sociopathic consulting detectives.

Gregory Lestrade, along with only four former police officers, manoeuvred between front lines and armament duty. He lost most of his team in the early days of the war when not much information was known, in the same few weeks he lost his family, slowly followed by his sense of humanity.

Things had come a long way since the early days of the infection. They had a number of secure facilities with electricity, food and water but with the prospect of no future, hope was a dirty word.

 

  


“How many today?” Sherlock asked as John stepped through into the living room.

The man sighed wearily and threw himself down upon the couch.

“Sixteen.” he shook his head, “There were kids. I hate it when there's kids.”

“Is it true that the US are popping over for a visit?”

“Yeah,them and Australia. They can spare the troops and medical care.”

There was a total of forty on the front lines before the American's and Australians chipped in. They brought with them one hundred and fifty willing soldiers, fifty unwilling, and seven trained doctors.

Sherlock threw his book down onto the coffee table. It was his sixth time through War & Peace and quite frankly he was becoming bored of it. He retreated to the kitchen.

“Tea?” He called.

“And a biscuit if you have any.”

“Only the ones from Mrs Turner next door. Her daughter was making them. I'm afraid the child has a long way to go when it comes to cookery.”

John huffed a sigh and listened as the former detective moved around in the kitchen.

His entire body ached with the stress of the war. His mind worked on over time, much like Sherlock's did on occasion, and he had never felt so run down. He knew tea wasn't the answer, but it sure as hell was temporary fix.

Sherlock returned awkwardly carrying a tray of oddly shaped cookies and two cups of strong tea, one black and one with milk. John took his beverage, nodding a thank you, and settled back into the seat.

They sat in silence for as long as ten minutes. John watched out the window at the facility below. People walked the streets of the North London sector doing their daily shop or treating a loved one to ice cream. From the ninth floor of the apartment block A, every one seemed so care free; as if the world they once knew hadn't completely fallen apart. But it reflected in the eyes of every survivor. Something like _that_ didn't just happen and not leave behind a wound.

“Sarah called, Eva Jameson successful gave birth to a healthy baby girl. The first birth of North London Camp.” Sherlock announced.

“That's great.” John answered dryly, not so much as glancing away from the window.

“You are not reacting like I thought you might.”

“I'm sorry Sherlock. It's not my child, I don't see why I should be so happy about it. It's a baby, babies are born every day-”

“Not in this era.”

“Well – no.” John sighed, defeated.

“Small miracles, John. We need to keep looking at the small miracles and finding hope within them.”

“Don't give me hope Sherlock. There is no hope left for this world, we've been over run by the virus and sooner or later we'll all fall victim.”

“When did you become so negative?”

John sighed and buried his face in his hands. He ran his fingers through his hair so that his fridge flopped to the front.

“I-I've just had a long day. Shooting people was never something I overly enjoyed about war.”

“You just have to remember that they aren't people, love.”

“But they _were._ ”

Sherlock gently placed a hand on his lover's knee. He was at a loss for words. Comfort never came easy to Sherlock but in recent months he had almost perfected it's art, however he still found it extremely difficult to comfort his boyfriend in times like this. He had seen John come home from worse days, days when he had been faced with his own mortality on a greater scale and days when he had shot his own squad square between the eyes, but it didn't make his better day's less difficult. Nothing about this war was easy and the psychological effect that it left on it's warriors and survivors made each hour harder than the last.

“I think they wanted you down in the lab to night at six.” John piped, “You should go. I'll hold the fort.”

“Make sure and eat something, won't you John?” Sherlock moved forward and pressed a kiss to his boyfriend's nose.

“I'll be waiting for you to get back.”

“That sounds promising.”

 

  


Sherlock Holmes hung up his woollen over coat for his lab attire. He left the front of the white coat unbuttoned and swept into the underground laboratory. Molly Harper stood over a light microscope glancing at a slide that Sherlock knew was blood from one of the infected. They hadn't yet succeeded in finding any cure for the virus and the scientific team had been working round the clock trying to get any leads.

One of the base camps top researchers, Jessica Harper, met him at the entrance to the containment facility.

“What's this about Harper?” Sherlock barked.

“Lovely to see you too Mr Holmes.” She answered calmly.

“Excuse me if I seem less than enthusiastic to be here. This had better be important.”

“Everything we do here is important, Holmes.”

“Yes, well I have a partner at home who is doing his best to defend us while we work here and in the last six months we haven't so much as found a strand of DNA that can help us. So please excuse me if my hope and patience is wearing thin.”

“We have a new victim,” Harper turned on her heel and strode on down the hallway, confident that Sherlock would follow, “He was just brought in from battle over an hour ago.”

“He was on the front?”

“Yes. Thirty nine year old James London. His squad captain thought it better to bring him in for research purposes rather than kill him.”

They came to stop at one of the reinforced glass cells. Inside stood the monster that James London had become. He snarled, his mouth and nose caked in dark blood. His eyes had a cloudy film covering the iris and pupil and his skin was a sickly green colour. On his neck, still raw and oozing, was the bite he had obtained in battle.

“This man was a good friend on John's.” Sherlock said.

“He's not the man your John was friend's with, Holmes. He's infected.”

“I know.” Sherlock huffed a sigh, “Have you taken blood samples?”

“Four so far.”

“Bone marrow samples? Saliva?”

“That's why we need you.”

Sherlock swallowed back a groan. He hated removing saliva samples from the infected as much as any of the other scientists; but removing bone marrow was a different story in itself.

The former detective reluctantly lead the way to the autopsy room, Harper shuffling after him, and proceeded to prepare himself for the proceeder ahead.

 


	2. Part II: Of all the little things in London, John save a dog.

Three months previous:

 

 _A memoir of the of The Infection; Entry #34._

 _By DR.J.WATSON._

 _After much consideration, Davidson has assigned to Squad Beta #3 for the remainder of my stay. Yesterday I braved the center of London as a private; but I returned to camp as a sergeant._

 _We headed out at noon, each solider carried his satchel and weapon. I also took with me the medical kit. No matter where I went my status as a doctor, or past army doctor, never seemed to lie._

 _The streets were littered with garbage, paper and plastic and debris everywhere, cars burnt out and piled one on top of the other; it was bedlam._

 _And then there was The Infected. They moved faster than any zombie I had ever heard of but they weren't alive. Their eyes were dead and their bodies rotted. One took me by surprise. It pushed me to the ground and began snapping at my neck with it's exposed teeth. It drooled saliva mixed with blood and pus onto my uniform. One of my squad shot him square in the back of the head._

 _The appearance of The Infected is nothing to the smell. It's like a sickly combination of blood, rot, shit, piss and burnt corpses. There is no possible description of something like that other than revolting._

 _We moved on and lost both Harris and Ford to the infection. They're still out there; I can feel it._

 _There was a house we hadn't yet explored and when we heard sounds coming from the back yard, there was no question where out destination was. I almost wish we hadn't gone back there – but then I would never have found Him._

 _A german shephard was lent over what I can only assume was the corpse of another infected. We all assumed that the bitch had gotten so hungry she had ventured into the yard where the creature was wandering. When she began to eat the flesh of the infected she caught the disease herself._

 _She attacked our squad, managing to kill Franklin (an image I'll never get out of my head). I shot her between the eyes before she could sink her teeth into me._

 _In the garden's shed we found the remainder of her dead pups, devoured by their mother; all except for one. I found Him hiding behind tool cupboard. He had been bitten but other wise was unharmed and so I gently lifted him and tucked him into my satchel._

 _He was subjected to tests, blood, bone marrow and saliva was taken and when he was given the all clear from infection we took him home. Turns out this little lost pup could be the cure for civilisation. Somehow He's immune to the infection. Sherlock thinks it has something to do with his complete heterochromia. I think he's a gift from God, if there is such a thing._

 _Finally, and after much consideration on my partner and I's part, we decided to call the little miracle Flynn._

 _I am praying that he holds the answer we all so desperately need._

 _Sincerely,_

 _J.Watson._

 

 _**_

 

 **Present:**

Sherlock stumbled into the apartment at a little past three am. It seems that Mr London, dead or alive, was very reluctant to co-operate. He snapped and snarled and anyone who came close. Thank god for sedatives.

Flynn met him at the door, all happy wags of the tail and excited yelps. Sherlock knelt and began to rub behind the pups ears.

“Hello boy,” he whispered, “Where's Daddy John?”

A light was turned on in the living room and a sleepy John appeared in the hallway. He had his robe hanging loosely around his body, a pair of novelty boxer shorts his sister had gotten him for Christmas one year and, securely gripped in one hand, he held his hand gun.

“Oh – it's you. Back late.” John yawned.

The dog all but bounded up to his master and began licking at his hands. John shushed him.

“Hard nights work.” Sherlock answered as he stood and removed his coat, “ They brought in another one.”

“And?”

Sherlock followed his lover silently into the bedroom. Back in the days of his detecting he would have thought nothing of telling John that the infected they had in lock down was his squad buddy. He would have laughed at the idea of John being upset, after all, the man was no longer, why grieve? But things were different now and Sherlock wasn't as insensitive as he once was. He knew full well that John was already in a pretty fragile mind set and this wouldn't help things. That's why he kept his mouth shut about London and instead lied through his teeth.

“He's just some fellow that I recognise. He used sell me drugs back in the day.”

“Then he deserves everything he gets.”

John settled back into bed. Flynn jumping up to nestle against his back, while Sherlock changed.

“How did you spend your evening?” Sherlock asked climbing in beside his lover.

“We watched a movie.”

“Delightful. Which?”

“I don't quite know. I let Flynn choose. It was one about the Vatican.” John sighed, “Our dog has bad taste.”

Sherlock chuckled. He moved closer to his lover and wrapped his arms around his waist. Flynn moved to the bottom of the bed to lay at their feet.

“You haven't been yourself lately John.”

“We aren't talking about this now.”

“And why not? I haven't been able to get it off my mind all evening.”

“It's almost 4am. I'm not talking about this even if you've been thinking about it while wanking.”

"That's hardly appropriate.”

John clenched his teeth together.

“I don't know how you expect me to feel or act Sherlock. War was never like this back in Afghanistan. Both sides had weapons and fear, now it's just us. Those things don't care if we kill them or if we use guns or hammers. They don't get scared and they're picking us off one by one.”

Sherlock pulled John tighter and gently places his lips to the spot just below his ear, but he remained silent.

“Can't you see it? We have nothing no matter how we look at it.” John continued.

“We're building a life here, a little village where we can build up our civilisation again. It'll take time John.”

“And what sort of life will that be? Full of fear? I don't like living in fear Sherlock, and that is all there is now, and it's all there will ever be.”

“John please, you can't go on being so negative. There is hope.”

“Sherlock,” John turned to face his boyfriend, “I don't know how you of all people can be so okay with this. You used to be the one who found the bad in everything, you used to hate everyone but me; you used to be entirely different Sherlock.”

“One learns to adapt love. In times like this we all need to pull together to survive.”

“You think I need more time to adapt?” John sighed.

“That and you should kill more of those bastards.”

“Yeah,” John chuckled as he snuggled into his lover, “sounds like a plan.”

 

**

Sherlock Holmes and Gregory Lestrade stood in the waiting area of terminal five watching as a squad of American troops were escorted into the medical checkpoint. There, John Watson, accompanied by 'Alpha #4' and his fellow members of 'Beta #3', waited to approve each the US soldiers for admission.

“American bastards always have to interfere.” Lestrade snapped.

“We sent troops to them months ago before the disease _really_ got us. It's only fair I assume.” Sherlock offered.

“We don't need their help. We are coping just fine.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He was all to accustomed to Lestrade's denial of the situation.

“Of course we are.” he jested, “And I suppose the copious amounts of men we have lost in combat was all in our imaginations?”

Lestrade grunted in reply. He turned his back to the arriving troops and began to whisper profanities.

Beside them Flynn pressed his nose to the window, his breath creating a mist on the glass. He whipped his tail back and forth against Sherlock's leg and whined in anticipation.

“The dog doesn't like this either.” commented the police officer.

“Flynn is perfectly fine. It's excitement; not anger.”

“This is a bad idea.”

“Lestrade,” Sherlock barked, “If you don't shut your god damned mouth I will shut it for you! This is possibly the most decent idea any one in this camp has had since the beginning. It will either fail horribly or succeed wonderfully and, as big a risk as it is, we would have been stupid not to take it.”

Lestrade fell silent before nodding in agreement and leaving without so much as a good bye. Sherlock remained in the terminal with Flynn, watching as the troops were herded into the medical checkpoints.

Sherlock wasn't fooled. He knew that the American's and Australian's had been brought in because the largest camp in Britain was going under and he also happened to know that it wouldn't make a lick of difference. The infected they were dealing with here were not the same as they were dealing with in other countries; these things were stronger, faster and hungrier than anything anyone had ever seen.

Despite all this knowledge, Sherlock still lived fruitless hope. It wouldn't do to show an already pessimistic John that he too was suffering from doubt. 


	3. Part III: An eye is taken for an eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The formatting for this kept messing up. I am sorry.

A briefing was given to all those involved with defence and battle in the camp. The citizens and scientists were spoken to separately. Sherlock Holmes attended all three of the meetings by his own accord and listened carefully to the bullshit being spread. His fruitless hope as quickly dwindling and ,as much as he hated it, he was beginning to think Lestrade was right.

Down in the laboratories, Sherlock, Molly, Harper and the remainder of the scientists were bluntly told that their efforts to find the origin and, eventually, the cure to this disease weren't good enough.

“Action will be taken to help you guys find the right path. Maybe even speed up the results.” one of the American doctor's announced.

“We've been doing the best we can! We've used live subjects, taken samples. What more can we do?” Harper argued.

“Don't worry little lady we'll figure something out. Your methods just aren't what we're looking for.”

“You mean they're different from your methods over the pond? Well, your methods are obviously shit because you have no results either. What if our method is the right one? What if we are a hair's length from the truth?!”

The American employed doctor glared at her from behind his glasses.

“I want more subjects gathered, Markus -” he indicated to a young, blonde haired solider, “Inform the troops. The rest of you are dismissed for the time being. You will be paged if needed.”

Harper was the first to storm from the room, closely followed by Molly and Sherlock.

“This is pathetic!” Harper barked, “They just can't come in here and demand that we change things. Bloody Yanks!”

“I need a cup of tea.” Molly sighed rubbing at her temples.

"As do I. John's still down at the barracks, you can come up to ours for tea if you like.” Sherlock himself would do anything for a strong cup of coffee and his flat was closest.

“Do you have biscuits? Whiskey?”

“Biscuits, yes but whiskey is in short supply as it is and John and I rarely drink it. We just have beer.”

“Sorted.”

They stopped at the makeshift convenience store at the base of the apartment blocks to pick up a packet of fresh bread and a small block of butter for toast. It was still early in the morning and none of the team had eaten.

“Nice place.” Harper said, “Where can I hang this?”

Sherlock indicated to the coat hanger and all three coats were deposited upon them. Within fifteen minutes all three were seated around the breakfast bar, toast, biscuits, tea, coffee and beer laid out in front of them.

Harper was banging on about how the yanks would bring about their downfall while Molly and Sherlock nodded in unionism. The former detective rested his chin upon his right palm and watched out the window. Molly and Harper began going off on a tangent about feminine business.

Sherlock couldn't help thinking that if Mycroft Holmes were here he would have everything under control. The American’s and Australian's would never have never needed to be called and a cure would have been found long ago. Yes, at a time the former detective hated his brother (even considered him his arch enemy) but as they say; you never really miss something until it's gone.

Sherlock allowed himself to reminisce. He recalled all the times he had spent with his family, he recalled the horrible week he had spent withdrawing from cocaine and all those hours of pestering Anderson and Lestrade at New Scotland Yard. However, most of all, he recalled the very moment he met John Watson.

“You're becoming soft Holmes.” Harper piped, drawing the former detective from his thoughts.

Sherlock grunted and studied his coffee.

“That look in your eyes is love, Holmes. You were thinking of that cute solider of yours.”

“He's a doctor first and foremost.” Sherlock added, “And I wasn't thinking of just him.”

“Was our feminine business annoying you?” Molly asked.

“No. Talk all you wish about genitalia and breasts and – ovary things. It doesn't bother me.”

“Lighten up Homes. Have a drink.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, “How long was I day dreaming? How many drinks has she had?”

Molly chuckled and passed the man a biscuit.

“Eat that because, honestly, you're beginning to look like one of them.”

“Haven't you heard; it's all in this season.”

 

**

John was rather more agitated than usual that evening. He stormed around the flat, cursing under his breath and making snide remarks about the US Soldiers. Sherlock pretended to read a book beside the fire, all the while listening to John's objection's to the troops.

“And they had the nerve to tell us that our scientists had not a blasted notion what they were doing.” John spat, “I'll fucking show them blasted notion -”

“John, I know what they said about us; I was there.”

“And you have nothing to say about it?”

“I bitched earlier with Molly and Harper. It's out of my system.”

“They want _us_ to go and catch more live specimens. It's all ' _blood samples'_ this and ' _bone marrow that'.”_

Before Sherlock could utter another word there came an angry hammering at the door. Flynn immediately began barking, his ears pulled flat against his head and his tail between his legs.

“Shush boy.” John cooed.

The loud knocking started again.

“Open this door!” the accent was American no doubt.

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose before rising for his chair and opening the door.

“Yes,” he snarled, “What can we do for you?”

“We hear you got a dog.”

“What of it?”

“Word on the street is he's immune to the disease.”

“And? Do hurry up – we were about to go to bed.”

“We need him.”

“Look, I'm sure you have been told that Flynn has given blood, urine, bone marrow and saliva samples along with many others. He has nothing more to give.”

The American solider scoffed and forcefully pushed open the door.

“We need that dog that dog for a number of samples, more than what you have left us.”

Sherlock was pushed back out of the way, his shoulders hitting hard against the concrete wall. He gasped as the air was knocked form his lungs.

Flynn continued to bark and snarl as the men freely entered the flat.

John emerged from the bedroom wielding his pistol. He aimed it at the men.

“Leave him alone or, believe me, I will not hesitate to fire.”

“What do you intend to do son? It's three against just you, you've got no choice.”

“Sorry to tell you but my partner also has a pistol. And he's aiming right at one of your men's temple.”

Sherlock was indeed holding a gun close to one of the soldiers ear's.

“Carefully and slowly make your way out of our flat. Leave the dog and don't you ever even so much as think of trying this again.” Sherlock growled.

“If you don't give us this dog you are putting human kind in danger. Not just this city; but the world.”

“Fuck the world.”

Sherlock was sharply elbowed in the stomach. He collapsed backwards, the gun falling to his side. Immediately Flynn lurched at one of the solider only to find himself roughly grabbed by the scruff of his neck.

John fired the gun and directly hit the smallest of the men in the let shoulder. He cried out and fell against his taller co-hort.

However, it was all over when John found himself staring down the barrel of the leaders gun. Sherlock, still winded on the floor, could do nothing now that his gun was kicked half way across the floor.

“We'll just be taking this little fellow with us.” The man smirked, “Thanks for the hospitality.”

John would have pulled the trigger, he would have shot that bastard and taken his dog back but what if he hit Flynn? And then there was the fact that his blood was rushing through his head, his heart was beating much too fast and that all at once he seemed to have lost all function of his limbs; he just couldn't move.

He heard Sherlock make an attempt to stop them but it was all a distant murmur. John flopped back against the wall and slip down to sit on his bottom. He pulled his knees to his chin and just stared.

What really was the point of it all? Losing Flynn was the last line of a seemingly never ending chorus and really, John was just exhausted.

“John – John why didn't you just shoot him!?”

“What if I had hit Flynn?” John cried, “What if I had killed him Sherlock? I-I just can't do this any more. I'm tired. I don't even want to get out of bed in the mornings, I can't sleep at night; God -” he buried his head in his hands, “Just let me die.”

“J-John don't say that.” Sherlock crawled towards his weeping sweetheart and gently pulled him into his arms, “Please John, it'll all be fine.”

“Stop it! Stop being so positive when you're fucking not. You are just as broken as I am and you think you have to keep some iron mask on in order to keep me standing? Well you don't. I can see right through you and even if I couldn't, I'd still fall. There is no hope Sherlock; you know it, I know it and so does everyone else. We are not living, we are barely surviving.”

Sherlock placed his chin upon John's shoulder.

“We still can't give up.”

“I would rather kill myself than turn into one of _them.”_

“What happened to the solider in you? What happened to fight and protect no matter what?”

“He died along with London. As for the rest of my _fight_ ; it followed Flynn out the door.”

“This truly is a dire situation that we are all in.” the former detective sighed.

“No shit Sherlock.” 


	4. Part IV: Bitter ends.

Try as Sherlock might, John would not raise from his bed in the morning. He refused to accompany the soldiers as they ventured into the lost city claiming that it was pointless and Sherlock didn't push him, in fact he was quite happy to keep John away from the front.

However, when by nine that evening John still hadn't eaten or drank anything the former detective knew something needed done.

“John, sweetheart, if you don't eat something I'll have to get one of the medical staff up here. You know I can't let you carry on like this.”

“Go ahead.” John answered.

“I – John – You need to get up and eat.” Sherlock demanded, “I will not turn you over to them to be locked up in the asylum. You can not let this world get to you; you can't let it drive you into depression.”

“I was driven into depression along time ago.”

Sherlock pulled at the hair on his skull as he paced the bed room. John's eyes followed him lazily, moving back and forth as he walked along the floor. After a while the former detective sat down upon the mattress and joined his fingertips together in an arch.

“We need to go after Flynn.” he said.

“You're insane.” John whispered, “You've always been insane and you'll never change. Just leave it.”

“Leave it and watch you rot here? No. He was our dog and they took him without so much as a 'please.' Get out of bed, get changed and grab your gun.”

John continued to mutter as he moved from his bed. Sherlock busied himself in the living room, filling his pockets with rounds, hooking his gun onto his belt; he even managed to wedge a knife into his shoe.

 _This is crazy_ , he thought to himself as he attempted to flatten his unruly curls,  _This is utterly fucking insane. What am I doing? Why can't I just let sleeping dogs lie? I was never this compassionate and morally right back in the day; this war has gotten to me more than first expected._

 _Still, John needs me now. Even if this is our swan song, so to speak, I am prepared to give them my all. My John deserves that much._

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, took a deep breath and moved to stand in the door way of the bedroom. John was fixing his gun into the back of his trousers.

“You're sure about this Sherlock?” He asked.

“So many things are wrong in this world, John. People have become more than immoral; they have become monsters. Flynn was _our_ dog and they had no right to take him. The experiments we preform on those creatures are horrendous to say the least and if I find out that they so much as whispered to Flynn in a nasty way, I will rip their hearts out with my bare hands. So yes, John, I am very sure of this.”

John nodded, “A psychopath is better than no path I guess.”

Sherlock placed a hand on each of John's shoulders and squeezed.

“I'm doing this because I love you.”

John refused to meet his gaze.

“No. You're doing this because you want a fight.”

 

* * *

 

Gaining access to the underground facilities was easy. Sherlock had the codes and the skills to get them by all the doors and, any one who needed knocked out, John took care of. It was exceptionally surprising how smoothly the whole operation went and both men knew it was only a matter of time before things would mess up.

They snuck quietly through the many hallways with the only light coming from the illuminated exit signs. John brought up the rear, gun firmly in hand, while Sherlock stalked forward.

He punched in the codes for the main area and stood back as the doors swung open. The lights flickered on one by one brighting the work stations, desks and computers within.

Sherlock furrowed his brow in frustration.

“It's too easy.” he mumbled, “Why is it so easy?”

“Maybe they thought it safe enough and left?” John suggested half heartily.

“No, no they aren't idiots.”

The automatic door swung closed behind them. John jumped forward and clung to Sherlock's elbow.

“Safety measures. In case of a - “ Sherlock gasped in realisatoin, “b-breakout.”

“W-what!?”

“Shit!”

Sherlock spun to face his partner.

“John – stay as silent as possible.”

There came a deep moan from the lock down and the whines of an animal. John smothered a gasp.

“Flynn.” he muttered.

There was the sound of muffled foot falls. They were not as swift as the usual foot falls, thank God, and Sherlock knew that only gave them time to make it to Harper's office. John barely had time to register the situation before Sherlock dragged him by the sleeve of his jacked towards a much smaller room with a reinforced door.

At first John assumed Sherlock intended to keep them safe in here but he quickly realised that the genius was only buying them time so he could collect his data.

“What the bloody hell is going on?” John barked.

“The infected obviously over powered them. Stupid, _stupid_ men. They took on too much and now we are all in danger.”

“What are you talking about?!”

“The American medic ordered the capture of thirty six infected. We have only three reinforced holding cells, that would mean twelve infected to a cell. By a push five to a cell is dangerous. Twelve would have no problem breaking through within at most three hours. Depending on strength of course.”

“What are you saying?”

“I'm saying we have thirty six very hungry, very angry infected out there.”

“But we're safe in here?”

“Yes. The door is strong metal; bullet and bomb proof. But we can't stay here, we'd run out of air within a matter of hours. Not to mention the food and water.”

 _ Of course _ John thought.

Sherlock rummaged through Harpers desk, snatching up her stray rounds as he went. John stood with his ear pressed tight to the door, gun raised to his chest and eyes closed in concentration.

“I can hear them.” he uttered.

“Yes, yes I suspected they would be making their way here. Don't worry, they can't get through.”

The former detective began to punch numbers into the telephone. He listened for no more than five rings before swearing and moving onto the next.

“Damn. The lines aren't working.”

“What do we do?”

“Not a worry. Lestrade always carries his walkie talkie, I can hopefully pick him up on this frequency. If not, then we'll just have to brave them.”

“B-brave them?”

“Yes John. If we allow them to remain out there and someone unsuspectingly comes down here and they are attacked, then the outbreak is no longer closed in one area. The infected will escape and North London camp will be no more. We can at least try to be heroes.”

“Wasn't it you who said heroes didn't exist?”

“That was a long time ago.”

Sherlock began to fiddle with the walkie talkie but was met by a high pitched static. He cursed and tried again, but with no luck.

“Oh God.” John slid down the door and sat upon the ground, “We have to go out there. Fuck.”

“It will be fine.”

“Fine! Fine? No Sherlock it will not be fine. We will be ripped to pieces.” John pulled at his hair and squeezed his eyes shut, “They're just sitting there waiting for us. They know we can't possibly beat them. Fuck Sherlock, I can't do this.”

Sherlock took hold of his partners shoulders and shook him hard.

“Look at me John. You are a solider-”

“I _was_ a solider! I didn't want to fight this war, I was forced into duty.” he cried.

“You are still the strong man I fell in love with. You will stand by my side, as you have always done, and we will get through this together.”

Slowly, John nodded. He lent his forehead against his lovers and took deep, calming breaths. He knew he didn't stand a chance, something told him in his bones that there was no hope left, but if hope was what Sherlock wanted, then it's what he got.

“Come on. We should leave now or -”

John pulled Sherlock down into a kiss before the man even had time to finish his sentence. Both his hands reached up to take hold of the man's cheeks and he felt the grip on his shoulder's loosen. If this was going to be the last moment they would ever have together then he was going to remember it.

“John...” Sherlock whispered as they broke for air, “I love you.”

“I know."

“W-we need to go.”

John moved from the door and raised his gun.

“Be ready to shoot and run on my command. They won't all be crowded here, only a few. Our novelty will have worn off and they'll have dispersed back to the other corpses. They may be human but their attention span is that of a fish.”

Sherlock unbolted the door, the sound of the lock sounding much too loud in such a quiet environment. The door was opened in one fluid motion, as if Sherlock was trying his best to hasten the punishment, and almost immediately they were confronted with three lonely infected.

The one nearest to Sherlock threw itself at the man's neck. Sherlock let out a small shriek before kicking it hard in the stomach and quickly planting a bullet between it's eyes. Another went for John and met an almost identical fate.

The last was thrown against the wall and battered over the skull with the nearest item at hand.

Sherlock yelled the command to run and so they took off. The sound of their gun's had attracted at least a dozen more and, with a fierce growl, the infected followed.

“Shit! Move!” John screamed.

One climbed from beneath the desk and briefly snapped at the soldiers ankle but John just managed to shake it off and get a clean shot between it's eyes.

In front of him Sherlock took down another few with four loud, ringing shots.

“The sound is attracting them!”

“Excellent deduction John, what else do you expect us to do?”

“We won't have enough rounds for them all.”

“My office isn't far. Just keep running.”

The radio at Sherlock's hip sparked to life.

“Sh.....k. Sher...k!” It was Lestrade, granted a little bit distorted.

“Lestrade! There's been a break out.” Sherlock weezed in to the device, “Thirty six infected, lower levels. Need help.”

They rounded a corner only to be caught by a small group feasting on what once was a medic. Before they could so much as move John fired six bullets, hitting each square in the skull.

“Damn that radio! It's alerted more of them!” he cursed.

“Sher....k. Army on...way . Hold them off....get...ere. Take down....an and ...godsake don't...et bit.”

The static ended just as the couple managed to reach the small office. The door was unlocked and built of the same metal as that of Harper's. Sherlock managed to dive through the passage but John was sharply pulled backwards. A lone infected had him by the forearm, it's teeth gnawing and tearing at the man's flesh.

“No!” Sherlock screeched.

He sharply kicked the fiend around the side of the head and basked in the crack of it's neck. John crawled in through the door way and collapsed against the wall. The door was closed and bolted before Sherlock slid down the cool metal to join him, relishing it's cool material. 

He heaved much needed breaths and, after the dizziness passed, checked himself over for injury; nothing physical.

John was slumped at his side. His face was deathly pale, the skin beneath his eyes growing darker and the sweat dripping from his hair. The bite he had obtained from one of the infected was so deep Sherlock could make out the _ 'thump thump'  _ of John's pulse with in the blood.

He swallowed a lump in his throat; he refused to believe this was it.

“Lestrade is on his way. He's bringing the army. It'll be fine.” Sherlock cooed.

John coughed and gave Sherlock a dirty stare.

“No. Stop that.” he barked.

“What?”

“ _That_. This is it for me; don't fool yourself.”

“No. No, no.” Sherlock took hold on John's injured arm and attempted to stop the bleeding, “I can fix this. We'll be fine.”

“Kill me.”

“No John.”

“I'm one of them now Sherlock, save yourself and kill me.”

Sherlock shook his head. John stared at him, his eyes seemed heavy and his breathing had slowed. He reached for the discarded gun by his side.

“Put it down.” Sherlock barked, “You are going to be fine.”

“You're the fucking genius, you're the one who has studied this. You know that anyone bit is automatically considered one of them; why am I different?”

“Because-because you're John.”

The man smirked. He raised the gun and positioned it beneath his chin.

“Not good enough love.”

“Please.” Sherlock was sobbing now, “please.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“John-”

He pulled the trigger. 

 


End file.
